


Strangers, Swords, and Sunshine

by art_of_a_diffrent_color



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood, Both of them, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, My bois in the Rain, Rain, You know Eowyn was the wild child of the family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-11 20:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/art_of_a_diffrent_color/pseuds/art_of_a_diffrent_color
Summary: While on routine patrol Eomer encounters a rider who is more then a little off course. What starts as simply making their way to a common destination turns into much more.(working title)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is chapter one! I do have a plan for this story (sort of, and it is subject to change), but i will try to stick to the plan as much as possible.  
> Once again, I don't own anything, if you recognize them, JRRT was the one who came up with them.  
> Read, Review, an Enjoy!  
> _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Lightning clapped above, illuminating the plains for the briefest of moments: Bushes - green by day - flashed a sickly grey, the far off mountains still capped with snow stood as massive ghosts against the sky. The clouds which all day had been threatening rain were finally making good on their promise.

Eomer groaned, while normally happy to spend two weeks on border patrol, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark found that his spirits were dampened by, well, being damp. Rain was all fine and good when one was inside and not left to its mercy. The near by forest could provide some shelter true enough, but that wood – Fanghorn – would only ever be a last resort. Eomer is wet, not desperate to be dry. 

A second clap of Lightning illuminates the fields once again, and Eomer is pulled from his thoughts at the sight of a rider steadily approaching through the rain soaked fields.

Reaching for his sword, Eomer halls himself to his feet, ready for a fight should one be coming. Instead of charging, the rider raises a hand in greeting and only sets it back down to their reigns when Eomer raises one of his own. When at last the rider draws close enough to be heard of the pounding of rain and the roaring of the thunder, and even then only at a shout, Eomer calls:

“Not the kind of night one tends to go for a ride.”

“Indeed not,” the rider agrees from atop their mount, voiced raised so as to be heard. “But I have business that could not be delayed for better weather and have been forced to ride through this display.”

Climbing off his horse the rider lands on the ground with a squelch, their hood kept up as protection against the rain.

“I had been making for Edoras, I have news which will be of concern Theoden King.”

“Then you have traveled too far north and followed the Entwash when you should have followed the banks of the Snowbourn west if Edoras is your destination. This here,” Eomer gestures to the dark line of trees just visible with the next shock of Lightning, “Is the southern edge of Fanghorn.”

The man curses, or at least, Eomer thinks he does - the strangers voice too soft to hear properly. Eomer eyes the man before him as best he can with the poor light, a frown on his face.

“Is your news urgent?”

The man shakes his head, sending water in all directions.

“Only the kind which cannot be delivered second hand.”

“Then stay awhile and rest, I myself am journeying to Meduseld come the morning. Perhaps we may go together.”

“That,” the man shouts over a particularly loud thunder clap, “sounds like an excellent idea.”

Together the two men set up a makeshift camp, their horses bedded together for warmth much as the men do. No fire can be made for the dampness of the night, and neither one dares enter Fanghorn in search of dry wood.

Huddled on the ground Eomer turns to the man.

“Pray, forgive me. Here we sit, companions, and I have failed to give you my name. I am Eomer, son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark.”

“I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor.” The man, Faramir, says holding out his hand. Pulling a hand out of the confines of his traveling cloak, Eomer takes the offerd appendage in a firm, if brief, grasp.

“You are the Stewards youngest? Brother of Boromir, yes?”

Faramir makes a face at that, it could be a laugh, a grimace, or something of both, but in the dark it is hard to tell.

“Yes,” Faramir confirms. “I see my brothers reputation precedes him even here in the Mark.”

“He came to the Halls of Meduseld a few years back, and, well,” Eomer laughs, “Boromir of Gondor is not a man soon forgotten.”

At this Faramir laughs, no questions about it, and yet another lightning flash illuminates a shy smile on the younger man’s face.

“That he is not, he either makes fast friends or enemies with people. I have had to on more then one occasion, step on his foot to keep him from insulting a guest.”

“It is much the same with my sister.”

“That would be the Lady Eowyn?”

“That is her. She has a keen eye for sword work and a sharper tongue. The two of them got on rather well from what I can remember of your brothers visit.”

“I believe I remember Boromir telling me of her. Is it true she challenged him to a spar?”

The conversation passes until both men begin to yawn, and despite the cold and damp, both find sleep with the warmth of joy deep in their being.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning comes, and with it some relief from the rain, songs are sung, Eomer may or may not have a crush, and Faramir wishes Boromir would just stop telling stories for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo Hooooo! Yet another chapter for you to enjoy! This one is a little on the long side for what I normally wright, but I'm happy with it. The song in this chapter is called 'The Lay of Gil-Galad' and the first three verses were written by JRRT and sung by Samwise while at the camp at Weathertop. The parts that belong to Tolkien are underlined, the rest are a creation from my head. If you want to find a link to me singing the song, see the notes at the end of the chapter for the link.  
> Please, Read, review and Enjoy!  
> \--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--___--__--

With the morning comes a break in the rain. The sky is still grey and the two men stink of wet horses, but at least the chance to dry out a bit has come.

 

Eomer wakes by himself and for a moment wonders if the night before had only been a product of his mind. A sound to his left soon dispels the idea and the Marshal turns his head to find his companion up and going through his pack. With the mans back turned, Eomer takes the opportunity to examine the Gondorian: Tall and lithe, Faramir could not have a more different build from his brother who is broad across the shoulders and built for swordplay. Faramir, Eomer decides, is better suited for Archery. Looking at the Setwards sons tack, Eomer is not surprised to see the bow and quiver, which confirm his suspicions. His hair is a dark black that ends a little past his shoulders, perhaps a bit long for the fashions of Gondor but certainly short in comparison to those of Rohan. His skin is olive in tone, a far cry from Eomers light skin - pale after a long winter without much sun.

 

Eomer must make some sort of sound, for Faramir turns around, a small smile at his lips.

 

“Good morning,” he greets, and Eomers heart stutters in his chest.

 

Eyes, grey as the horizon glint in the early light, a hint of gold touching them at their center, making Eomer think of mischief and lending the eyes a light all their own. High cheeks frame his angular face, and the beginning of a beard from a week without shaving rests on his jaw.

 

“Good morning,” Eomer returns, climbing to his feet just in time to catch the water skin thrown his way. Eomer grunts his thanks before drinking deeply. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Eomer tosses the skin back before making his way to his gear and rummaging around for food.

 

The morning passes in comfortable silence as the two men eat and gather their gear for the ride ahead of them. Side by side the two  travel along the border of the forest, until Faramir breaks the quiet between them.

 

“I am not unfamiliar with patrols, I myself often make them, but generally I am not alone.”

 

“Nor do I.” Eomer shifts his mount closer to Faramirs. “My men and I had been patrolling but I had to send them on ahead of my return; several had been injured in a warg attack and we lost many of our horses. Too many to have men double up their mounts comfortably. They had to make for Edoras to care for the wounded and receive new horses. I chose to follow behind should any more wargs be left to attack.”

 

Faramir nods.

 

“How long ago was this?”

 

“Five days. They should have reached the Halls by now even with the wounded, riding hard as they were.” Eomer slides his eyes to glance at the Gondorian.

 

“And yourself? How long have you been traveling?”

 

“Roughly twelve days. I set out from Osgiliath and I should have reached Edoras two days ago. But I fear that one river looks much like another in the pouring rain.” Faramir grins and looks over at Eomer, mirth in his eyes.

 

“I was beginning to suspect that I had gotten lost when I saw your camp near the forests edge.”

 

“Aye, the rain will do that. The storm came from the same direction you did, you must have been caught in the thick of it.” Eomer agrees.

 

They laps into silence, the sky overhead steadily darkening until around midday the clouds once again open and unleash more rain onto the travelers.

 

As the rain begins, Faramir pulls the hood of his green cloak up and Eomer catches a glimpse of the sword strapped to his hip and the dagger tucked neatly into his boot. Something about the image strikes Eomer as odd, but he is soon distracted by a soft humming coming from the Gondorian.

“What is that?”

“Hm?” Faramir says, looking up from the road before him.

“The song you were humming, what is it?”

“Oh, that is the Lay of Gil-Galad. It is written in Quenya and an older version at that. I have been working on translating it into Westron.”

“Would you sing it?”

“I have only a few of the verses translated completely, but I will sing what I know if you like.”

Taking a deep breath, Faramir closes his eyes briefly and begins to sing:

 

_ Gil-Galad was an Elven-King. _

_ Of him the harpers sadly sing; _

_ the last whose realm was fair and free _

_ between the Mountains and the Sea. _

__

_ His sword was long, his lance was keen. _

_ His shining helm afar was seen; _

_ the countless stars of heaven’s field _

_ were mirrored in his silver shield. _

__

_ But long ago he rode away, _

_ and where he dwelleth none can say; _

_ for into darkness fell his star _

_ in Mordor where the shadows are. _

_Great rings there were that many adored,_

_Made in the finest Elven forge;_

_but an evil purpose was their fate_

_unknown by all until too late._

_For one ring Sauron had sought,_

_In fire and malice it was wrought;_

_and few remained to combat still_

_the dark Lord Sauron and his will._

_The war it raged, for years it went,_

_Many scores of hosts were spent;_

_Great kings there were who fought the Wraiths_

_Both Mortal, Dwarves and Elvish makes._

_At Barad-dur the end began,_

_The Black Gate of that cursed land;_

_Where all is fire, ash and blood_

_that comes with swiftness as a flood._

_Too soon the forces all did reel,_

_For there came Sauron clothed in steel;_

_from him malice entirely rolled_

_and on his finger a band of gold._

_The dark Lord sent forth poisoned air,_

_But through the torrent shone Ereinion fair;_

_his lance was poised ready to strike_

_and seek and end to the cursed night._

_Alas, his lance would fall away,_

_For Souron would the High King pay;_

_Gil-Galads neck in iron grasp_

_would suffer then a firey blast._

_Gil-Galad did then burn away,_

_Now where he dwelleth none can say;_

_To valinor did his essence fly?_

_Or on that field there did die?_

The last notes of the song drift away into the rain and Eomer has to suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the damp air around him.

 

“Cheerful,” Eomer remarks wryly, and Faramirs lips quirk at the corners in a fleeting smile.

 

“That’s not all of it either, just what I have been able to translate.”

 

“Your brother told us that you have a great mind for learning, always with your head in some book or studying some event. He never said you possessed any skill with singing.”

 

“I have no great skill,” Faramir shrugs, dismissing the compliment and ducking his head at the praise. “Only just enough talent that people do not demand I stop at once when I begin to sing. But it is true that I enjoy learning what I can where I can. Books will only get a person so far, and it is the stories that live after an event that can be truly telling.”

 

From his mount Eomer grins.

 

“Your brother was right, you realy are a philosopher of the modern age.”

 

“My brother,” Faramir groans, “Has a better love of stories then I ever will. Do you know how often it has happened that I have arrived at a place only to find that Boromir has told so much about me that people tell me they feel that they already know me?”

 

“At least he doesn’t carry a picture.”

 

Hidden as it is behind his hood, Eomer thinks he can see a reddening of his companions cheeks and facies that it would travel to the tips of the younger mans ears.

 

“He didn’t!”

 

Faramirs blush only increases, and Eomer howls with laughter.

 

“Oh, oh he did!” Tossing his head back, Eomer closes his eyes and lets the sound spill from him and in doing so entirely misses the look the Gondorian gives him.

 

For Faramir cannot help but look at the man beside him: at the way his long golden hair falls down and past his broad shoulders like a mane; The way he sits astride his horse as if he were born for it and the way his brown eyes shine with mirth as he wipes rain and tears from them.

 

And his mirth is contagious, with how open and hinest it is, and before long Faramir finds himself laughing along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faramir might have a crush too. Oh these boys...
> 
> As I said I would, here is the link to my tumblr post with the video: 
> 
> https://knitordeath.tumblr.com/post/182094210943/the-lay-of-gil-galad-via-vimeo-my-addition-to
> 
> The melody is not mine, I borrowed it from the BBC Radio production of The Lord of The Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring and I highly recommend giving it a listen as the radio play is amazing!
> 
> I absolutely subscribe to the head canon that Boromir sings his brother praises everywhere he goes, and I think a good portion of us have heard of the one modern au hc where boromir has a bunch of photos of Faramir in his wallet. While this is not a modern au piece, I totally believe that Boromir at one point had a drawing or small painting of Faramir with him that he would show off to people. He can be loud and argumentative sure, but he will always be a proud big brother.
> 
> I have no shame in saying that I have based Faramirs eyes off of my own, which have Central Heterochromia. This means that the color of the iris around the pupil is a totally different color from the rest of the eye. Mine are grey with gold around the pupil, and I have been told it gives me a mischievous look.
> 
> Come and find me on Tumblr at: knitordeath OR at my art blog: art-of-a-diffrent-color


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long ride, stories are told. But the night is not as safe as it would seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3!  
> I have mixed feelings about this one. I'm happy with parts of it, and others I am only okay with. I might edit this at some point but right now I just need to get it out. This chapter does come with a rating increase for violence and blood. So if you have any issues with that kind of thing, I would recommend skipping the part of this chapter I have labeled.  
> Read, Review, and Enjoy!  
> _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They stop for the night still on the edge of Fanghorn, the rain now a steady drizzle with no end in sight. Cold and tired from the long days ride, Eomer decides to make a fire while Faramir tries his luck with a bit of hunting. Just as the Marshal gets the fire going properly, Faramir returns, a small rabbit in one hand and his bow in the other.

“Some luck then?”

“Some,” Faramir agrees and tosses the rabbit at Eomer, turning to wrap his bow back in its protective oil skin cloth in an attempt, if a futile one, to keep the instrument as dry as possible.

Pulling out a small knife, Eomer begins to clean the animal and soon the smell of roasting meat begins to waft over the camp.

“Do you know any stories?”

“Aye,” Eomer responds as the two finish up their meal, glad to have something warm and not travel rations in his stomach.

Relaxing in around the fire, Eomer casts his mind out for one, settling on one from his childhood.

“Far to the east and as north as the old ford of the Anduin, once lived a small people…”

The story is an old one, told to Eomer by his mother before she passed, about a group of little people, of one who traveled with wizards and elves, fought in old forests where the trees were alive; of rescues by strange men in blue and yellow, of food and flowers and the joy of returning home. It is not the most thrilling of stories Eomer knows, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Faramir. The Gondorian laughs in all the right places and is quiet in all the others, his eyes never once leave Eomer as the story progresses, and when it finally reaches its end there is a small smile on his face.

“Thank you,” Faramir says voice low, his bed roll wrapped about his shoulders.

“It is a child’s story, nothing great.”

“And still I thank you for it,”

The fire before them crackles and snaps, smoke rising into the night where it mingles with the clouds. Faramir follows the embers into the sky with his eyes and something in Eomers heart clenches at the sight and the Marshal has the sudden urge to rub at his chest.

“Is everything alright?” Faramir asks unprompted.

“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” Eomer pinches his brows in confusion.

“No reason,” the Gondorian shakes his head. “I just thought that -”

A howl cuts the man off and Faramir shoots to his feet.

“Wolves?” Eomer asks, on his feet and sword in hand.

“Doubtful,” Faramir responds.

The two do not have to wait long for the Orcs to attack. There are three of them and one warg, the beasts fur matted and filthy with what Eomer strongly suspects to be blood.

\----(here is where the bloody parts begin)----

The first of the Orcs charges at Eomer, its crude sword raised over its head. The creature brings it down with a bellow and Eomer blocks. Beside him, Eomer can hear Faramir defending himself from another of their assailants. Trusting that the Gondorian can hold his own, the Marshal devotes his attention to the fight on his hands.

Blocking and striking when the opportunity arises, Eomer tries to find a weakness in his opponents’ method of attack and it soon presents itself: its sword – large and heavy – is slow to recover from a defense position. With a cry, Eomer takes advantage of this by feigning an attack to the legs. The orc responds as the Marshal thought it would, dropping the black sword to block the expected attack. It does not have time to counter the true blow to the head. It dies with Eomers sword embedded in its skull, black blood oozing from the mortal blow. Turning around, Eomer keeps his sword raised, ready to take on the next challenge. What he finds is Faramir standing over the body of the warg whose rider had been thrown in the fight. With a yell Faramir leaps over the body of the Warg and slashes at the orc, cleanly severing its arm from its body. The creature screams and the sound turns into a choke as the Gondorian drives his sword through its chest.

\----(end explicit bloodshed)----

The two men keep their guard up, looking around for the third orc. But the final creature is nowhere to be found. A gurgle from the warg alerts the men that the beast is not dead. Its breathing is ragged and shallow but its eyes are alert and Farmir takes a step toward it.

“What are you doing?” Eomer hisses when the Gondorian kneels by its head.

Faramir ignores him, grey eyes focused on the amber eyes of the warg. Something passes between the two, communication done with eyes and feelings alone, and when Faramir stands up his sword is once again ready in his hand, a determined look on his face. Almost too quick to see in the fading light of the fire, Faramir puts the creature out of its misery.

“Are you mad?” Eomer growls when the man turns to face him.

Faramir does not respond, a frown on his face. It is unnerving, the change in the Gondorians demeanor to something so vastly different from the man Eomer has come to know over the last few days, and it catches the Horseman off guard. This man is quiet, which is not too different from how he normally is, but the grimness and weariness about him does not match with the man who just minutes ago was asking for stories to pass the night.

The two must round up the horses, who had strayed during the fight. Through it all Faramir keeps quiet, and when he does finally speak it is in a hushed voice that brokers no arguments.

“We should sleep in shifts.”

Even though Eomer knows it was not a question, he still nods his head. There is logic in it after all, with one enemy still unaccounted for sleeping without a guard would be foolish.

“I will take first watch,” The Captain says and stamps out what remains of the fire, plunging the camp into darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to have my boys be bad ass this chapter, and I think it did a decent job with it. I have some knowledge sword fighting and I hope this came across as believable. Faramir is being moody, and makes some strange choices this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day brings another story, and the night brings a new encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter and on time! Not gonna lie, this one is a bit of a filler chapter, but the boys do some more bonding and that is always nice.  
> As always, I hope you Read, Review, and Enjoy!
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What sleep Eomer finds is not restful, his sword never leaving his hand, and when Faramir shakes him awake Eomer feels just as poorly rested as he did before. Faramir sleeps with this sword too, back to the Marshal. The night passes without further incident and at dawn it is Eomers turn to shake his companion awake. The two eat quickly and quietly, both feeling better under the light of day when they know those creatures of the night are less likely to attack.

 

As the sky brightens it becomes clear that the worst of the rain is over, only a light spattering of clouds dot the sky and the feeling of the sun on their faces is welcome to the two waterlogged travelers.

 

Cautious of the Gondorians prior mood change, Eomer finds himself watching the man closely. Faramir is quiet as he gathers his bedroll and fixes it to his saddle. Gently stroking the mares flank, the Captain checks his horse over for any injury he might have missed during the inspection he made after the attack. The mare, a beautiful dappled thing, flicks her tail and catches Faramir in the face, making the dark-haired man splutter and laugh. The mare nickers lightly, almost like she is laughing along to some unspoken joke. The Marshal cannot help the feeling that he is missing something - a part of a conversation - but he soon puts it from his mind: Faramir is in better spirits. Whatever shadow that had clung to him is now gone, and the two men ride out again.

 

They stop twice to let the horses rest and graze, and to answer the call of nature themselves. Both stops are brief, still weary of any attacks even in the light of day and when evening begins to fall Faramir once again tries his hand at a bit of hunting.

 

After a full day in the sun and wind, Eomer can feel the beginning of a burn forming on his cheeks and nose, his hair having shaded his neck from most of the sun. Faramir, when he returns - this time with a pair of birds - is a shade darker then he was that morning but otherwise untouched by the harsh light of the early spring.

 

They sleep in shifts again, only this time Eomer takes the first watch. The night sky is clear, and the moon hangs low above them, a sliver of its full grandeur waning in the sky. The luminous orb has only risen to a quarter of its zenith when Faramir joins Eomer, bedroll wrapped around his shoulders.

 

“It is not yet time, you should rest while you can.”

 

Faramir shrugs, eyes heavenwards.

 

“You were thinking too loud.”

 

Casting a glance at the darker man, Eomer considers the words.

 

“My father used to take me out on clear nights, point out every star. He knew every story and we would spend nights wrapped in blankets, not going inside until the sun had begun to rise.”

 

It is a sad smile that graces the Horse Masters face, memories of long ago rising unbidden to mind.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Eomer could not have been more than five, sound asleep in bed when a knocking wakes him. The small boy sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes as a tall figure with long blonde hair opens the door.

 

“Pa-Pa?”

 

“Get dressed Eomer, I have something I want to show you.”

 

It takes a bit of time, the young boy still groggy, but he does eventually manage to get more then his nightclothes on. Eomund bends down and scoops his son into his arms and heads outside.

 

The night is cold and clear, each breath comes out as a puff of white before the father and son. They two need to walk for a while to escape from the fires that still burn in the village. When they pass the gate the world around them glows in the light of the stars and moon, making the golden halls of Edoras shine silver.

 

“Look up Little Horse,” Eomund whispers into his sons ear.

 

When Eomer does, the breath leaves him: the sky is filled with countless stars set in a tapestry of dark blues and purples that slide along the edge of a translucent strip of white.

 

“This one here,” Eomund points to a set of three bright stars all in a row, “Is the belt of Menelmacar, The Great Swordsman.”

 

“I don’t see a man,” the boy frowns up at the sky.

 

Eomund laughs.

 

“You have to use your imagination a little bit, see those there are his legs and those,” Eomund points to three nearby bright stars, “Are his hounds.”

 ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Blinking up at the same sky, Eomer is brought from his mind by a warm hand on his shoulder. Beside him, Faramirs eyes shine fixed on the night above them; Thousands of stars reflect in the glassy surface, the gold of his iris’ mixing with the reflection, creating a galaxy all their own. His face is open, framed by his dark hair, and Eomer thinks he can see a hint of the elvish heritage that is rumored to be a part of the Stewards bloodline. Faramir shifts, and the spell is broken. The Gondorian removes his hand and stands up, looking around the small camp.

 

“Do you hear that?”

 

Eomer does his best to listen over the sound of night birds and bugs. At first, nothing seems odd, no sounds out of place, but then he hears it. The distinct thudding of hooves on the ground moving at a slow steady pace and coming closer with each second.

 

“Aye,”

 

“It cannot be an orc, they do not ride horses.”

 

The two men hold their voices low, so as not to carry on the night breeze. Standing ready, hands on the hilts of their swords, the two prepare to meet the rider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who could it be now?!?  
> I wanted to use Rohirric in this chapter, but there is less written on it then Dwarvish, not even a basic word list.  
> Eomund I think was a good father, for how short a time he was one. I love the idea that the people of Rohan, as a culture, do not have a written language. This means that they pass on knowledge and stories entirely by word of mouth. I feel that Eomund would have taken every chance he had to tell his children those stories.
> 
> Poor Eomer has a sun burn. Ah yes, the problems of being a pasty pale person in the sun. He will tan (eventually) but for now he gets to be a lobster.
> 
> Yes, Menelmacar is the constellation Orion. Kudos to people who spotted that!


End file.
